


gaining clarity, making change

by dinosuns



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, Iverson pov, Orphans, Post-Canon, Reconciliation, Undercover Missions, Understanding, keith is so natural and good with kids, set after season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 09:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16699465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosuns/pseuds/dinosuns
Summary: “This isn’t the time to play the lone wolf hero card, cadet.” Those words hang sour between them.“It’s not like that.”For reasons undetermined, Keith starts to slip off the Garrison radar between missions. It doesn't go unnoticed by Iverson.





	gaining clarity, making change

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to sink into my comfort zone of writing it in Keith POV but i realised it would be so much more interesting from Iverson's POV. this has been such a huge challenge i'm so pleased to finally share it with you!

The door nudges open, followed by an absent knock. It’s pried open enough for Iverson to catch the bright orange uniform, that shaggy overgrown hair and eyes teeming with curiosity. Some things never quite change, and that includes this one cadet’s rather individual interpretation of military etiquette. Another knock comes from the door, despite it being pointless considering it’s swung open halfway at this point. Keith is standing there in plain sight, but he’s not moving. This time he’s waiting for instructions - orders.

It’s a rare diligence, a discipline instilled Iverson never thought he’d see on this particular cadet. He remembers reading the introduction files all those years ago, giving Shirogane an incredulous eyebrow at the reports stacked against the new recruit.

“Paladin,” Iverson gestures to the seat across from him. “Take a seat." 

With permission granted, Keith shuts the door behind him and sits in a slow, near cautious manner. There’s a stiffness in his shoulders that only grows as seconds pass. His hands are clasped in his lap, squeezed tight enough for knuckles to turn white at the force. It’s a strange sight. Iverson had been more used to seeing those knuckles painted red with the rush of blood that came with a furious punch or blackened with bruises.

“Is everything okay, Sir?” Keith prompts, unsure and quiet. His voice remains low, hushed.

It’s a jarring contrast to the young cadet that once marched into his office, hurled accusations and dived across the table. The cadet who struck him across the face in a fit of rage. Perhaps Keith is stewing in the memory, given the way his eyes trail across the table he had struggled to climb over many years ago. But of course, that is not all that had been there that day. Iverson had seen it as Keith had been clawed off him and restrained by Officers.

Those eyes weren’t full of a fire that burnt bright, the embers had been dying.

This young cadet has grown from boy to man, but the garrison had hardly been part of the process to shape him. If anything, it had scorned him and clipped those wings. Rather than nurturing his talent, they had attempted to restrain it and then destroy it with an expulsion. What should have been acknowledged as grief, never had been. And whilst it’s doubtful this young cadet would have accepted the help had it been offered, the fact it had not been offered in the first place sometimes remains a misplaced regret in his career. Keith and his personal situation had not been his responsibility.

But just how many adults capable of taking the pressure off the wheel, nudging those reigns a little, had said the same thing before turning the other cheek?

Still, the failures of human kindness hadn’t stopped Keith from making his way to the stars. Iverson wonders if anything could have, it’s almost as if destiny or something just as powerful had found a brighter and fiercer home beneath his bones. It never yielded, and nor did he. After all, it had been his own path that he always chased no matter what. Iverson wouldn’t quite call it tenacity, determination had been a better fit.

Right now, however, Iverson would call his behaviour a mixture of the two. He cuts straight to the point, pushing the file forwards across the desk. Keith takes it with something just shy of hesitation, eyes widening at the content.

“Sir-”

“-You’ve been going offsite more frequently. Without clearance and without your lion. As a paladin, we need to be aware of your whereabouts. You’re not just an asset, you’re a target.”

Since the invasion had been thwarted, and the coalition had formed its headquarters here on earth, the safe-zone had expanded well beyond the Garrison. But the echoes of war remain loud and harsh beyond the established perimeter. On some occasions, rogue Galra Officers had attempted to build factions for a final victory. Keith knows this, and he ought to understand those risks considering his team and the MFEs had been on numerous missions to shut down those operations by now. Yet here is is, breaking boundaries and following his own rules. That kind of thinking ensures survival in dire situations, but it’s dangerous in a place built on a hierarchy of authority and chain of command.

“Oh,” Keith says, as if Iverson’s words hadn’t really occurred to him that clearance was something he needed to acquire. Though something tells Iverson he knows, he just hadn’t expected to actually get caught.

The universe thrums in his veins, promises something limitless and unrestricted. More so, it’s lawless. In comparison, Iverson imagines the Garrison is smothering for him. Just like before, the flames are choked and monitored carefully. There’s restrictions, rules, regulation. Keith may be trying his best, resolves himself to do so, but Iverson knows this kind of soul cannot be shackled down to one place. Yet alone here.

Flicking a page over, Keith closes the file and sets it back down. He’s barely read half of it, Iverson can tell from the way his eyes struggled the stay on the page, but apparently he’s seen enough to respond. A sigh drags from his lips, rather than words. Iverson is disappointed that that is the perfect preface to an excuse. As a leader, the leader of Voltron, Keith should accept responsibility for all his actions. Maybe Iverson is wrong, maybe he still is as reckless and self-destructive as before. It’s that thought that prompts him to speak. No more beating around the bush, Keith is someone who seems to appreciate direct honesty.

“This isn’t the time to play the lone wolf hero card, cadet.” Those words hang sour between them. Keith’s hands break apart to form clenched fists that slam by his side. His eyes sharpen and it’s staggering how his words suddenly have so much bite.

“It’s not like that.”

The venom isn’t directed at Iverson entirely, perhaps more at the situation. More, it’s something in those words that struck a nerve. For someone so rooted in actions, words seem to have always had a remarkable affect on the boy. Lifting his head a fraction, Iverson waits. There’s more burning on Keith’s tongue, going unspoken. Whatever it is, he swallows it hard, settles for something else with a hiss.

“This isn’t about me, Sir.”

“I find that hard to believe in the circumstances,” Iverson admits, but his heart isn’t completely in the scolding.

Granted, there is irrefutable evidence Keith is leaving the perimeter without permission or any permissible grounds. But there have been no ripples of ensuing chaos or trouble following it. Keith isn’t dredging up beasts or cutting down his own demons in the night. He’s simply here, and then he’s not. The fact these outings are so quiet and mysterious is intriguing rather than concerning.

“It’s not about me,” Keith repeats firmly, leaving no room for argument.

He may be a paladin, but that is not an excuse for evasion. Iverson is close to calling an ultimatum, when Keith lifts his head and tries again.

“A lot of people were displaced by the invasion, many lost their homes and family.”

“I’m aware,” Iverson schools his expression into a neutral one. Contemplating the extent of the suffering that had occurred brings nothing fruitful. Only deep-sated sadness far more personal than he wants it to be. “It shall not be forgotten.”

Takashi Shirogane had said it best. The end of the battle had been a solemn day, but one that promised a better future for everybody.

“What’s this about, really?”

Keith seems to unfurl a little, enough for the resignation in his eyes to shine through.

“In a lot of refugee camps, there are shelters. For kids. They’ve lost their families and have nowhere or nobody left. The Galra took everything from them.”

It’s not hard to piece it together.

“You’ve been visiting them,” Iverson breathes, realisation sinking in.

Keith gives a small nod.

“So that’s where you go off the clock?”

Keith nods again, jaw clenching.

“I see.”

Glancing down at the file, Iverson frowns. That’s too much of a risk for a paladin of Voltron to be taking. And it’s unlikely Keith is going to be satisfied with such an answer. Iverson takes a moment, considering his words. He’s still the authority here. If he has to pull those strings and be the unpopular, unlikeable person then so be it.

“Whilst that is a good and touching gesture, and offering humanitarian aid is something we endeavour to do, I’m afraid-”

The words evoke something desperate in Keith. He’s on his feet, eyes blazing. A hand smacks down on the desk, much harder than intended. Iverson’s eyes trail down to the crack forming around the hand. Keith hasn’t seemed to realise yet just how much strength he poured into that gesture.

“I’m going back.” _You can’t stop me,_ sizzles between them, a fact Iverson knows all too well. This is the person who broke into a top secret facility, set off explosive devices in Garrison grounds and punched him square in the face without hesitation. Pause. “Sir.” The title is more amusing in this situation, tacked on hastily. The wood has splintered around the edges where the heel of his hand pressed down.

“Then I suppose I’ll be coming with you.”

Pulling back, Keith purses his lips.

“What are you talking about?” Confusion and surprise morph over his face.

“Each time you go out there, you’re putting yourself in harm’s way. It’s only fitting that I come to inspect the conditions.”

“Right,” Keith says with uncertainty, the flicker in his eyes indicating he may not quite believe that to be true. As if he’s expecting this to be a setup.

It’s then his eyes settle on the table, spotting the way the wood has splintered from the force of his palm.

“I uh…” Keith starts only to slip into awkward quiet. Iverson has dealt with his fair share of bumbling, stumbling cadets and Keith has not ever been one of them. He doesn’t intend for that to change, or give an opportunity for that kind of mortification to fester.

“Don’t worry too much about that now. You were always good at leaving your mark,” Iverson says, surprising even himself as a near forbidden smile forms around the words. Keith’s eyes widen, he seems entirely unsure of how to respond to that. “And well, I suppose it gives the damned thing some character.”

The silence that follows is stifled and bordering awkward, but it’s better than the unbearable echoes of a war-cry howling through the hallway or any attempts at pointless smalltalk. That’s something to be appreciated about Keith, he doesn’t push more than necessary in this situation. Iverson knows what he needs to, and he’s got just the right amount of cards pocketed in his uniform. The pair of them make their way to the hangar with the efficiency expected of garrison personnel. Iverson sets his gaze forward, opting to ignore the familiar pang in his chest when their footsteps tangle into a tandem. It’s easy to find it comfortable, because sometimes the ripples are too unforgiving and strong.

If he looks over, Iverson is certain he’ll see another face in Keith’s stead. Remnants of another life.

He can’t do that to himself, or to Keith, so he doesn’t.

* * *

The remains of skyscrapers form jagged spires across the horizon, like serrated teeth sitting in the jaw of a monster that once evaded description. By its force, cities were rendered to ruin in hours, whole communities swallowed by darkness. Now the beast that came from the sky and tore the illusion of peace asunder has a name, only nobody speaks it. Iverson supposes that’s fitting, because whilst survivors are caught in a chasm of grief and gratitude for their existence, the earth remains in a state of perpetual mourning.

Deep marks etched into the ground almost resemble gaping wounds clawed open by something sharp and merciless. Spilling out of each one is a wreckage that extends far beyond the horizon, a magnitude of destruction near incomprehensible. It’s not just the landscape the invasion decimated. The further they get from the perimeter, signs of human life become replaced by the absence of it. Beneath the thrum of the engine, there’s a hollow lull. Despite the depth of the quiet, it’s brittle. Fracture bones caged in a bruised body, it could snap itself into pieces at even just an inch of pressure in the wrong place.  

All of this is hard to look at, but it’s harder to look away from. In the Garrison, discussing their next moves and limited options, the state of the world outside had been viewed only through the lens of a military satellite. Now witnessing it with the naked eye, Iverson is compelled to fix his gaze steady and firm. Unwavering against the uncomfortable gnawing beneath his skin, biting at his eyelids with each blink. Casualties were to be expected, of course. Many civilians died in the invasion. In fact, he has the exact figures neatly typed into a spreadsheet and that number is one that he committed to memory.

From the pilot seat, a low breathy sigh escapes Keith’s lips. Somehow, it’s as if he can sense Iverson’s sombre thoughts.

“Not much further,” is all he says. Iverson doesn’t need to strain to catch the guilt and melancholy burrowed between the rasp in that voice.

He’s always attributed the flames beneath Keith’s skin to something dangerous and volatile, explosive if not contained. But this fire isn’t one born from anger, nor is it destructive. It’s of mourning, an honourable solitary flicker of heat that burns in tribute to all who have fallen and lost so much.

There’s no words that can truly bridge the gap hanging between them, even if genuine. So it’s with a tighter purse of his lips that Iverson bows his head and clutches the back of Keith’s seat. Each number in that death toll is a friend, a fighter, a family member.

A boy with sprinkled stars for freckles and eyes brighter than the sun.

* * *

It’s a bumpy landing, but executed with the skill and talent nobody other than Keith could possibly achieve. Despite his expulsion, there’s no denying that Keith has always been a cut above the rest, embodying an old long forgotten code of honour that embeds itself into everything he does. He’s the kind of pilot you speak of in legends, but the name becomes eroded over time. Iverson finds himself momentarily stunned at how smooth they touch ground, studying the jagged rocky terrain stretching for as far as the eye can see.

Debris sticks out of the earth, ugly distorted ripples of impact twisting and cutting into the land. Everything is bruised, broken. The product of a warzone. And amongst it, not thriving but merely surviving, are makeshift shelters. Tents and re-purposed areas of a city brought its knees in the invasion.

Even at this altitude, it’s both staggering and nauseating.

Because in hardship and trials, people endure. No matter how far they’re pushed, how much darkness plagues every sunrise and every sunset, what triumphs is a fierce and unyielding beacon of wondrous light. For those who have fallen, and those who have not. They fight and they love both so fiercely.

It’s a sharp drop to the camp, requiring careful calculated steps. With supplies to carry, the journey is even more perilous. Keith is a few paces ahead, seeming to have memorised the route. It’s with ease that he manoeuvres his way down the mix of rock and brick, a war-made mountain. The stealth he exhibits merely confirms Iverson’s suspicions that Keith has been here at least a handful of times. That would match the reports of him slipping off the radar, at least.

“How in the blazes did you find this place?” Iverson asks on their descent down towards the small bustling hub of humanity. Just one of so many places the Garrison has been unable to reach and help.

Over his shoulder, Keith gives an elusive smile that is more haunting than it ought to be.

“I had a little help,” is all he says.

Whilst Iverson suspects that it has everything to do with a certain teleporting wolf that rarely strays from Keith’s side, he doesn’t probe further. It’s rare for those eyes to be so poignant these days, rife with something unspoken and all consuming. If Keith is dodging questions, Iverson will give him the benefit of the doubt and trust his judgement and actions. He won’t indulge the evasion, even though he understands the need for it now.

The moment they set foot on level ground, Keith barely has time to set down the boxes he’s carrying before he finds himself surrounded. From the shelters ahead, a group of kids flock to him. With elated cries of joy and glee, they barrel into him. They can’t be more than eight years old, the youngest almost tripping over their feet. Despite the enthusiasm being hurtled towards him, Keith keeps his arms raised and eyebrows set high, as if he’s unsure how to proceed. He seems to wonder if it’s okay to respond. Bewilderment flashes across his face, soon softening to something fond.

His hands lower, ruffling hair and patting backs. The gestures are stifled, almost awkward. But it’s sincere, beyond description. Because nothing Keith does or says is in vain, and it’s abundantly clear to all those around him. When he gives, it’s plucked from the very string that binds his soul. When he speaks, it’s raw and real. The tentative affection clearly means the world to the group of children flocked around him. Amongst the bustling shouts and exclamations of joy, Keith parts with a small smile. And when he opens his mouth to speak, the kids immediately fall into a stupefied hush. They hang on every word, as if it’s something mesmeric and majestic to treasure for a lifetime.

“I’ve brought someone with me today to help,” Keith’s voice drops low to accommodate the atmosphere. The smile etched into his lips grows, almost mischievous and knowing as the kids stir around him. Then with no warning, Iverson is dragged into the spotlight.

“This is Iverson. He’s…” Their eyes meet. Keith purses his lips, words trailing off. It’s unfortunate, because Iverson would really like to know what Keith thinks of him. Acquaintance is perhaps too  unprofessional, mentor is too forgiving. Despite the past, the blunders and misunderstandings, Keith doesn’t seem to hold anything against him. He’s a changed man, one of the best Iverson has come to ever have the pleasure of meeting.

But he’s still whipping up trouble. Because now, Iverson has no time to prepare for the onslaught of kids swarming him. All the attention has turned to him, without warning. In open curiosity and fascination, hey poke and prod and stare. Leaning against the debris, Keith watches. Amusement swirls around him, lazy and languid. Amidst the destruction and desolation of this place, there’s still hope and it is something that cannot go unacknowledged.

“Please,” Iverson begins weakly, seeing familiar eyes here far more than he should. It’s difficult to set that aside, but he always knew what situations might face him once they landed. “Call me Mitch.”

Iverson is a little formal, and probably a mouthful for most of them.

“Uncle Mitch!” one of the kids lunges forwards to yank at his sleeve, eyes brimming with excitement.

All it brings to Iverson is a sharp agonising twinge of pain he has no right to express in this place. Those words sting, more than he expected them to. In a voice of another, they’re not comforting or warm. They’re a reminder. It’s not their fault, this isn’t something anybody can understand or possibly know. Especially these young souls scattered across a torn earth like stardust. Hope and promise buds from them, far more than seems fair. They’ve loved and lost so much.

“Keith!” a young woman calls from the shelter, breaking Iverson from his thoughts.

Her long red hair trails behind her, messy and untamed, as she runs to meet them. Now closer, Iverson catches that resolve clear in her eyes. She’s short, barely reaching Keith’s shoulder.

“Clara,” Keith smiles as he greets her. The respect and admiration is paramount from the way he bows his head a fraction. A sheepish expression flashes across his face, gesturing to the crates. “Sorry, I’m running a little late with the supplies this week.” Eyes darting across to Iverson, Keith doesn’t yield. “Something came up.”

“Nonsense!” Pinching his cheek, Iverson is surprised to see Keith almost laughs into it, Clara beams. “We’re just so pleased to see you each time you visit! You can set the supplies inside, thank you."  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Without ceremony, Keith picks up one of the crates. In front of him, one of the kids with a gap between their front teeth adamantly insists to help. Fond and quiet, Keith takes all of the weight by himself whilst guiding the dishevelled-haired kid through holding the edges. Unaware, they seem delighted to be taking part in moving the supplies, boasting to their friends about how strong they are as they walk. Keith doesn’t disagree, nodding with a hum that the kids seem to be entirely entranced by. He could so much as breathe or turn to look at something, and Iverson is sure these kids would follow his every move with avid eagerness.

Keith has developed a bond with them, a foundation of respect and trust.

For the first time in many years, Iverson feels out of sorts. Keith has his own rhythm here, has developed a style and way of working to support this group of orphaned children. There’s a comfortable fluency about the way Keith weaves around their lives, sets himself to work. Iverson picks up the second crate, following behind. It’s a weird sensation. But he’s always known Keith had the potential to lead from the moment he broke formation and set his own course. It had just always been damning in his youth. Now, it's testament to something that should never have been overlooked.

Keith is someone that has greatness etched into his bones. And he doesn’t flaunt it or parade his skills. That's not to say he isn't aware of them. He cultivates them, and uses them as best he can. The humble nature of his gifts is perhaps one of the most striking things about him.

“We got the radio working a few days ago!” one of the kids chimes, practically skipping by Keith’s side.

“That’s good,” Keith offers, seeming to already know if he says anymore he’ll simply be interrupted by excited ramblings.

“It didn’t last long, but we heard some more about Voltron!!” Keith stiffens, demeanour becoming more uncertain. The children around him don’t seem to notice. “I remember seeing the colours dancing across the sky when they scared the scary aliens away! There was blue and red and - and yellow and green and purple! Since then, things have been much better.”

“Did you see the colours in the sky too, Keef?” a small girl asks, with blonde hair and big blue eyes.

“I-...” Averting his gaze, Keith clears his throat. “I missed it.”

Around him, the kids groan and cry out at this admission. One of the kids smacks their own face a little too hard in dismay. Crouching down in concern, Keith rubs the spot on their forehead. It merely gives the others a chance to cling onto him.

“No way!”

“You missed it!”

“Keith, what were you doing?!”

Iverson steps forward, words burning on his tongue. Something about the way he stands must catch Keith off guard. In a hasty frantic motion, he leaps to his feet. Ushering the kids towards Clara, Keith lifts his chin. The gestures is hard, uncompromising. Iverson knows that look, a challenge.

“I did what I had to,” Keith finally parts with, wistful. Glancing down to the enamoured young kid that is refusing to leaving his side, Keith nudges him towards Clara. “Thanks for your help with the supplies, Giorgio. You should go get some rest now.”

The kids trail out of the supply tent, unfazed by the words. Iverson, however, is baffled by what he’s hearing.

“They don’t know who you are...” he breathes in realisation. It’s truly rendered the words in his mouth to ash, the more he processes this. Everything Keith has done, all he’s fought for and worked to achieve. Not an ounce of it shines here, he carries none of it on his shoulders.

Eyes narrowing, Keith sharpens his gaze. There’s a heat burnishing within them, spreading out through his bones and rippling down his skin. Iverson is no position to fight this. He knows this.

“I haven’t told them yet,” Keith says it as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. A humble, unknown stranger that walks in with aid and fills their eyes with stars once more. He takes no credit, no selfish ego boost from this. Of course he doesn’t.

“Why not?”

“Word spreads around these parts… you probably would’ve found out sooner.” Gaze cast down, Keith shrugs. It’s not at all nonchalant. “Besides, I’m just one person.”

Iverson has seldom met a more selfless individual devoted to a truly good cause. Unwavering, unpersuaded. In other contexts, it would be tragic. He wonders if Keith is plagued by tragedy, the kind he will never voice or dare acknowledge. But the scar on his face, the shadows in his eyes and firm grit of his teeth are all indications that there are stories the Garrison don’t have the luxury of knowing. Keith’s story is one he holds close to his chest, keeps tightly under wrap.

“Maybe so. But you’re quite the hero here.”

It’s the wrong words.

Iverson discovers too late. Lips twisting into a bitter grimace, Keith lowers his gaze. All of him becomes swathed in a simmering fire, unreachable and untouchable. Shoulders slumped and face contorted, he looks a lot like the lost kid Iverson remembers from the Garrison. Before the war, before Voltron. When Shiro’s name was painted in silver and every hallway was soaked in mourning. Iverson recalls the mention on record of Keith’s past. Passed between foster families, father a well respected and admired fireman who lost his life to the flames.

He wonders, then. How long has Keith lived in the chasm between perpetual longing and mourning?

“I’m not a hero.”

 _This isn’t about me._  

It isn’t - Iverson is beginning to understand that now. But not all heroes are so outright and accepting of public fame and fortune. Some heroes go unsung, lurk beneath the excited quiver of the people and exist not to be loved or praised - just to do good. Whatever they can, whenever they can. And being the leader of Voltron, Keith is hardly an unknown name. His presence commands attention, whether he intends to or not. Even back at the Garrison as a cadet, Keith had always exuded the kind of dynamic energy that forced you to look his way. As if he had been desperate for someone to see him, not just his alleged and well-known shortcomings.

Now as a paladin of Voltron, there is nowhere to shed armour and remove himself from the platform so high above he has been placed. People want to pay their gratitude to those who fought to save the earth.

“I…I - _have_ to do this,” Keith murmurs, the notes of desperation cleaving his voice open into something rough and raspy. Lifting his head, his lips set into a thin line. The poignancy has lifted, leaving room for fortitude. “They’re alone, scared. They’re...” Pressing his eyes shut, Keith takes a shaky breath. When he opens then again, they’re glassy. Iverson pretends not to notice.

“I won’t let it happen to them.”

Even now, Keith refuses to put the spotlight on himself. Iverson hears it, shrieking shrill between every word. _I won’t let what happened to me happen to them._

Guilt holds Iverson in a chokehold, squeezing too tight. He says nothing, the echoes of Keith’s expulsion rippling out around them. He needs no reminders how much the Garrison failed Keith, or how much Keith rattled them. Iverson know this explicitly. It’s not the kind of thing that takes its leave quietly, pulling the door shut with a light click. No. This slams, trembles and shakes.

They fall into an efficient routine, words no longer needed or necessary. Much like Keith, Iverson too is a man of few words. They head back to the ship, bringing the final supplies down to the camp. That’s not without distractions, welcome and both unwelcome. Keith consoles Giorgio over the makeshift toy that he’s accidentally broken, resolving to fix the problem. He does, with effortless craftsmanship that raises more questions. Another kid interrogates Keith on all of his favourite things, a little deflated by the monosyllabic answers.

But between trips, the kids fix their sights not just on Keith. Iverson soon becomes popular amongst a small group. They babble and some of them bawl when their question doesn’t get answered quick enough. Iverson pretends not to notice the way Keith watches him pacify the children, tell them ridiculous and fanciful stories to indulge their imaginations. He soon forgets, settled on one of the crates to recite a particular tale he is sure for a fact will capture all of their attention. That is something he had one good authority. As expected they laugh and gasp and applaud throughout.

It’s not until Clara escorts them out that Iverson realises the audience had extended beyond the children.

“You’re good at this,” Keith says, voice low. There’s a gentle note to his words, reverent if Iverson listens close enough. It’s not disbelieving, more appreciative. “I mean,” cocking his head, Keith gestures towards the camp outside the tent. “With the kids. You’re good with them.”

There’s a question there, one he doesn’t dare let rise to the surface. Iverson hears it nonetheless.

“Well don’t act so stunned, Cadet.”

It’s a poor attempt, one Keith brushes off with ease.

“I’m not,” he says so simply with unwavering honesty.

A smile curls around Keith’s mouth, one far too plaintive and knowing. Somehow, he’s noticed. He’s seen what Iverson has endeavoured conceal. There’s a silence, one that has learnt to become patient but has always been accommodating. There’s also an invitation, splayed out between them as Keith hovers by the doorway. Iverson is staggered to find the terms are entirely left to him. He can leave at anytime, Keith can walk. He can speak, Keith can listen or he can leave the tent.

Perching on one of the crates, Iverson exhales slow.

“He’d be turning twelve this Summer.”

Keith puts down the final crate of supplies, and Iverson doesn’t miss the twist of his lip he sucks in, the flash of surprise that quickly evolves into remorse.

“Noah - my nephew,” he clarifies, smoothing his hands together tight. “I loved him, as a son.”

It’s not pity that Keith offers, which is a relief. Iverson isn’t sure he could deal with that, the same kind of gaze so many had bestowed upon Keith after the Kerberos launch. The paladin clasps the edges of the crate tight, eyes pressing shut for a moment. Genuine anguish and sorrow pinches between his brow, has a hiss of air escaping through grit teeth. He’s angry, upset. Iverson just hopes he does not feel responsible for the lives they couldn’t save.

Eyes opening slow, Keith regathers himself.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Holding out a hand, Iverson musters as much composure as possible. To dwell here is as dangerous as it is devastating. Particularly as he has not allowed himself to outside the privacy of his own bedroom. Noah has crept into every corner of this camp, nestled comfortably in the group of kids. Swallowing-hard, he blinks hard.

“You’ve done some mighty fine work here.”

Keith treads carefully, lips tightening around the words as if unsure if he’ll need to sharpen them. Always on the defensive, always assessing his options. Only this time, Iverson notes that cutting jagged bite is directed at nobody besides Keith himself. Their hands meet in a firm squeeze.

“You too, Sir.”

* * *

Leaving the camp is harder than Iverson expects it to be. Clara is grateful for their assistance, and the kids go through a series of colourful emotions as Keith bids them farewell. Giorgio is hard to shake off at first, quite literally. He clings to Keith’s leg, desperate to know when the next visit will be. Keith says nothing, knowing the circumstances might change forever as they head back to the Garrison. Iverson struggles to scrub the guilt off his shoulders. It’s just protocol, necessary safety measures for people who are invaluable to the mission. For the leader of Voltron to be going off into zones out of quarantine, the risks remain high.

There’s a reason Keith kept his work quiet and undocumented, after all.

As they make the climb, the calls of goodbye from the camp below continue. Keith sets his eyes ahead. Iverson makes no comment on how they glisten with unshed frustrated tears, how a sound too close to a choked sob almost breaks past his lips. It’s a terrible sound, and the wind is too stagnant to carry it away. If Iverson lets himself stew too long in this moment, in what churns beneath his bones, he might just find himself succumbing to the grief nipping at his heels.

Some things aren’t fair, or right.

Amongst kindness, there is the aftermath of something cruel and callous. This is one of hundreds if not thousands of places the Garrison simply has not had enough time or manpower to assist. It’s more than a job for Keith. He cares, deeply. And the work he is doing is something that could save people.

“Thank you,” Keith manages above the whirring of the engine when they take flight. “Those supplies should hold out.” Pause. “I’m glad I could go back. One last time.”

Iverson says nothing, can find no words because there are none that can make this better or moderately comforting.

The Garrison on the horizon beckons a mutual agreement to slip back into calloused skin. Respective ranks creep back into frame. The sun is orange and low in the sky as they arrive back in the hangar. Despite it’s warm glow, it doesn’t quite reach Iverson. If Keith picks up on how the silence is forlorn, he makes no grand gesture of showing it. Instead, Keith efficiently turns off the engine, nodding once to Iverson. Curfew is a few hours away, Iverson is sure Keith has his own matters to attend to with his team. Just as Iverson does.

As Commander Sam Holt approaches, he casts a final glance to Keith’s retreating form. Far more defeated than it ever should be.

Noah would have supported this mission, demanded to join the cause. That’s all Iverson needs to make his choice.

* * *

It’s a handful of days before Iverson has a moment to spare. Once it comes, he wastes not time in summoning Keith to his office. Since their trip, there have been no unknown outings. No slips off the radar. That’s crushing to consider. With a brief knock, Keith enters the room. His eyes are full of defiance that he hasn’t quite embraced. It’s unusual, unsettling to look at head on. Keith is too vulnerable, and Iverson isn’t sure he deserves to see him in such a position again. He already saw it once, dressed up with searing rage and sharpness, many years ago.

“I’ve had a thought about these outings of yours. And seeing the efforts firsthand, I can see you feel strongly about this.”

Standing more rigid, Keith rolls back his shoulders and stands tall. Not for himself, for the mission he’s devoted himself to.

“Yes sir.”

“You’re aware of why I cannot allow it to continue.”

Biting down on his lip, Keith clenches a fist. Iverson would rather not have another dent in the table, mostly because it’s sure to probably break the thing in half at this point. So rather than drawing this out, he reaches for the phone in front of him. As Iverson dials the number. Keith takes a seat slowly as if defeated.

“Veronica. Send Officers Dupont and Arrowood to the hangar.”

The phone is set down. Keith is alarmingly still, fingers curled tightly around his trousers.

“Officers Dupont and Arrowood will be providing you with primary assistance, you are to debrief them. Should you need further recruits, submit a request to my office. For all levels of this operation to continue, you will require clearance from myself. Communication is to be maintained. Is that understood?”

Keith's eyes go wide as the implications sink in. It’s the brightest the spark has even been in this office. No longer a fire self-destructive that burns perilous. The flames are nurturing, crackling soft and low beneath his skin. Iverson struggles to hold Keith’s gaze, unsure if it’s completely appropriate. But the air of formality soon falters as Keith lets slip a breathless disbelieving laugh and nods a little clumsy and frantic.

Schooling his expression, Keith heads to the doorway. Iverson finally is able to catch his breath as his back turns.

“Permission to take the lion, Sir,” Keith says over his shoulder, though it’s clear this is not a request.

If anything, this is for the sake of maintaining some level of conduct. Whatever answer comes, he’s already set on it. The black paladin hardly needs permission from anybody to fly his lion, that much has been made clear. Iverson looks up, the exasperation building behind his eyes. He expected no less.

“And I assume you intend to use your lion responsibly to carry supplies, not to give joyrides to orphans.”

Keith’s lips twitch, the hum confirms everything. They both know better. “Of course.”

Minutes later, when the roaring of the black lion shakes ground, Iverson lets a smile slip in the privacy of his office.

* * *

Months later, when the first report comes through to his computer from Keith, he blinks back tears at the operation’s designated title:

The Noah Foundation. 


End file.
